Chronicles of Dustypore: A Tale of Modern Anglo-Indian SocietyCunningham, H. S. (Henry Stewart), Sir
History
Chronicles of Dustypore: A Tale of Modern Anglo-Indian Society
Cunningham, H. S. (Henry Stewart), Sir
British -- India -- Fiction; India -- History -- British occupation, 1765-1947 -- Fiction
An hour or two later the two travellers came to a halt. Maud found some
early tea awaiting her, and joyfully exchanged the tiring captivity of
the palanquin for the horse which had been hurried on for her use for
this stage of the journey.
'I have been fast asleep,' she said, as Boldero and she rode down the
hillside together and watched the faint glow in the east warming
gradually into day, 'and this is very refreshing. The darkness, the
crowd, the blazing torches, the confusion, the babel of tongues we had
last night seem like a horrid dream. I was never more thankful for the
light. I feel as if I were escaping; and, Mr. Boldero, you are my
deliverer. I shall be grateful to you all my life. You must have had so
much trouble and have done it all so kindly and like yourself.'
'Do not talk of that,' said the other; 'what are friends for but to
serve us when we need them?'
'And to forgive us when we wrong them?' said Maud, whose conscience was
goading her to confession; 'I know I have behaved ill to you--to you and
to everybody. Now I am going to try to do better, if only I can get the
chance--if only God in His goodness will grant me that.'
'I am hopeful,' said Boldero, 'for both of you. Sutton, I feel, has
something greater yet to do. We have often laughed and said that nothing
can kill him. You know in cholera it is as much mind as body: courage,
calmness, and determination are half the battle.'
'Then,' said Maud, with enthusiasm, faith, and hopefulness glowing in
her face, 'I am sure he will do well. His body is his soul's servant,
you cannot fancy how completely; it does its bidding as a matter of
course. I do not think it would even die without his leave. Have you
telegraphed to say that I am coming?'
'Yes, but leaving it to the doctors to tell him when they think best;
or not at all, if they fear the intelligence will excite him. Very
likely they will be afraid to do so.'
'They will do wrong,' said Maud, who knew her husband's temperament
better even than Boldero; it will not agitate him, and it will make him
resolve to live. He _will_ live, I believe, if it is only in order to
forgive me.'
'Do not say "to forgive,"' said the other, who, in a generously
enthusiastic mood, began to think that Maud was pressing with undue
severity against herself; 'to tell you all that you have been to him and
all the sunshine you have brought into his life.'
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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